The Complete Book of Australian Flying Doctor Stories (4 page)

I remember back when I was working for Telecom up in the north-west of New South Wales, one time. They held this Charity Ball at a place called White Cliffs, and this ball was the culmination of some pretty vigorous fundraising activities in aid of the Royal Flying Doctor Service.

Now you know how a Charity Ball works, don’t you? That’s when the participants, usually young beauties, have spent a while raising money for a certain charity and they hold a ball to crown the Queen, the Queen being the person who’d raised the most money. Well, this ball was exactly like that except it was called a Golden Granny Ball. So instead of young beauties, these finalists were the more elderly, or should I say more mature, type of women. And what’s more, they’d come from places like Tibooburra and Wilcannia and even maybe Cobar and Wentworth. Well, these grannies had completed their fundraising activities and arrived with their hubbies and other family members for the big Charity Ball in the White Cliffs Town Hall.

It was your pretty standard sort of bush show. Everyone was done up to the nines at that early stage of the night. It was a BYO affair, like. You know what that means, don’t you — Bring Your Own food and grog. And I specifically mention the grog at this point because the pub hadn’t set up a bar in the hall, as you might naturally assume it might. No, the publican was
a lot smarter than that. His line of thinking was that when the blokes had run out of grog in the hall, they’d not only wander over to the pub to buy more supplies but they’d have a couple of swifties while they were out of sight of prying eyes — in particular, the prying eyes of their spouses. Now you can’t tell me that that wasn’t a stroke of economic genius, especially knowing some of those blokes, as I did.

Anyway, other than the naming of the Golden Granny there were also a number of raffles held to raise money for the Flying Doctor Service. The first prize was actually provided by the publican, and consisted of a week’s free grog, food and accommodation at the White Cliffs pub. There was only one stipulation, and that was that the offer had to be taken up within the next three months, before tourist season or whatever began.

Now this was a pretty sought-after prize, especially among the blokes, if for nothing else than the free food and accommodation that you’d need after spending a day drinking the free grog. The offer of free food was viewed by most as an optional extra in this case. I don’t know how many books of tickets they sold but there was a fair few because I saw them being snapped up left, right and centre.

Then just before they had the crowning of the Golden Granny they drew the big raffle. You could have heard a pin drop in that hall. I saw blokes with their fingers crossed. I saw blokes with their fingers and legs crossed. I saw blokes with their fingers, legs and everything else crossed. You’d have thought that a million dollar lottery was about to take place by the looks on some of those faces.

So the judge stepped up, dug his hand in the barrel, pulled out a ticket and said, ‘And the winner is…blue, number twenty-six.’

And you wouldn’t read about it. The bloke who’d bought the winning ticket had just been banned from the pub for six months. When this matter of technicality was drawn to the attention of the judges they got the publican over from the pub and had a confab with him. God knows why this bloke had been banned. Maybe it was for creating some drunken disturbance or other. I don’t know. But for whatever reason it was, it must’ve been pretty bad because the publican was adamant that the offer had to be taken up within the next three months. The upshot of it all was that the winner was deemed ineligible to take up his prize and a redraw took place.

And, boy, wasn’t the chap nice and dirty about it.

The Code One Emergency came through from Papunya, the second largest Aboriginal community in central Australia. So we hopped on the plane and flew out there. There was a doctor with us that time who’d had a lot of paediatric experience.

When we landed, the police were waiting at the airstrip. They stuck us in the back of their paddy wagon and we were rushed into the Papunya Community Clinic where we were taken in to see a sixteen-year-old girl. Two community nurses were there along with the girl’s grandmother and mother. Lots of other women were gathered in and around the clinic and also a mob of kids were outside wanting to know what was happening.

The young girl was going through a difficult labour. She’d been fully dilated for a couple of hours and by the time we arrived she was getting exhausted. The contractions weren’t as strong as they had been and the baby wasn’t being pushed out.

It’s dicey in a situation like that, going into a place where the community nurses are familiar with everyone and are held in such high standing. You sort of get the feeling that you’re imposing in some way so you don’t want to tread on any toes and stuff up the delicate balance of the community’s social structure. You’re also careful about what you say and how you say it or else you might come across as being overly pushy which could get people’s backs up.

‘Oh,’ I said, hinting at helpfulness, ‘maybe she should go to the toilet.’

‘We’ve tried that,’ came the reply.

‘Then maybe she wants to walk around,’ I suggested.

‘No. She’s tried that too.’

We weren’t getting anywhere and neither was the girl. The baby had to get out some way and, no doubt, it was getting tired as well. Then after a bit of a discussion we decided to take the girl back to Alice Springs where she could have a caesarean section.

So we got the girl up and walked her over to the clinic car, a Toyota four-wheel drive, ‘troop carriers’ or ‘troopies’ they’re called. They love them out there. They’re ideal vehicles because there’s so much room in them. You can easily fit a stretcher in the back if necessary. But in this case the girl got in the front along with the grandmother who was coming back with us, to keep her company. We hopped in the back and then we were returned to the airstrip. Then just as the young girl was being helped up the stairs into the plane I said to the doctor, ‘Oh, I’ll get the obstetric kit out just in case.’

There were two pilots in the plane that day, our senior Royal Flying Doctor Service pilot and one who was on a Mission Aviator’s Scholarship. They’re a separate group of pilots who work for the Mission Aviation Fellowship and they do a lot of community runs in the mail plane, picking things up and dropping things off to the remote communities. The MAF were getting a new aircraft, one of the Pilatus planes, so their pilot had come along as part of his training.

Anyway, because of all the control and instrument checks and so forth, it takes about five or ten minutes
for the plane to get ready for take-off. And during that time one of the jobs that the pilot has to do is to call flight control and notify them of the POB which registers the number of people who are on board the aircraft. While the pilot was doing all that the girl had four or five contractions and it became pretty obvious that she was going to have the baby much sooner rather than later.

After we’d taken off, the girl had a couple more strong contractions. We were up about 15 000 feet at that stage. I remember that the grandmother was in one seat, the doctor was in a seat, there was a crib on the back stretcher, the girl was on the other stretcher, and I was in another seat with the headphones on.

‘Oh,’ I said to the pilot, ‘I think we’re going to have a baby so I’ll take the headset off for a while.’

Then just as I did, the girl gave a much stronger push so I thought that I’d better have a look, which I did, and I could see about a 20 cent size of the baby’s head being pushed up.

‘We might move grandmother to the front seat so we have more room,’ I said, thinking that by five pushes this baby would be out.

Then the doctor said, ‘If you deliver the baby, I’ll look after it.’ Like I said, she’d had a lot of paediatric experience.

‘Okay,’ I replied.

So I got grandma out of the way pretty quick smart and grabbed the obstetrics gear and got the clamps and the oxygen ready. And then the baby was born. I delivered the baby. A little baby girl. It was amazing. And after I rugged up this beautiful little baby girl, I put the headset back on.

‘We’ve just had an addition,’ I announced to the pilot. ‘You’ll have to amend the POB.’

‘Wow,’ he said, ‘I’ve been with the RFDS for seven years now and this is the first time I’ve ever had to amend the POB.’

Then he notified flight control. ‘Flight control. Amended POB. We now have seven POB.’

Even the air traffic controller, a normally dry, quiet and emotionless voice over the airways, as they all seem to be, well, he came back on and he was also really excited. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Congratulations.’

So the baby was born and everything was fine. There was hardly any mess at all. But it was such a thrill to do it and what’s more to be able to say that we’d done it in midair. It was just amazing. There we were, up at 15 000 feet. We were all so excited, the young girl, the doctor, me, the two pilots and, of course, grandma. Grandma was over the moon.

No doubt you’ve heard of the term ‘as full as a boot’. Well, here’s a story that’ll take some beating. It’s about a Padre who went one better.

It happened back in the Christmas of 1937 when, after a stint of work on a station up in the middle of Cape York, a stockman, a real gentlemanly cove he was, came down to Normanton to celebrate. Now this type of celebration was, and still is, a bush ritual. After a group of stockmen have been out living and working in cattle camps for months on end, as soon as the mustering season is over they take a break and head straight for civilisation, and in particular to the nearest watering hole, there to celebrate.

Anyway, along with his mates, this chap arrived at the National Hotel in Normanton determined to enjoy himself. And as occasionally happens in these situations, he got a bit carried away. Well, more than just a bit, really. He overcelebrated to such an extent that when he decided to go to bed, he encountered great difficulty in climbing the two flights of stairs leading to his second-storey room. But patience is a virtue and he awkwardly edged his way upwards, step by precarious step, much to the admiration and encouragement of his mates.

Given the condition this feller was in, he did a sterling job. That is until he was about to take the final step in that almost ‘Hillarian’ climb to the summit. As he turned to wave to the cheering crowd below, a minor
mishap of judgment occurred and, lo and behold, back down the stairs he came, thump…thump…thump, until he reached the bottom and there he stayed, unconscious and injured.

After the unfortunate accident, the publican got in touch with the Australian Inland Mission at Cloncurry — the AIM being the organisation that pioneered the Royal Flying Doctor Service — saying that the chap was in real trouble at the foot of the stairs.

‘Looks like the poor bloke’s injured his noggin and broke his shoulder bone,’ the publican explained.

Now this was the first real ‘Flying Doctor’ trip that the particular Padre in question had gone out on. Normally he was a patrol parson with the Presbyterian Church who, in turn, ran the Australian Inland Mission. And it was his job to cover the area from Birdsville to Normanton and beyond by road, that’s if you could describe some of the bush tracks that he travelled over as being roads. In actual fact, he virtually lived in his truck, covering hundreds of miles each year, christening bush children, installing pedal wireless sets, and so forth. John Flynn used to travel with him quite a bit.

Anyway, as this clergyman prepared to get on the plane, the doctor picked up on his apprehension.

‘Padre,’ the doctor said, ‘don’t worry. This is just a plain evacuation. We’ll go out there, collect this feller, and bring him straight back to Cloncurry. All will be hunky-dory.’

With those words of assurance, they clambered into the small Fox Moth 83 Ambulance aeroplane. After turning the propeller, the pilot jumped into the outside cockpit and prepared for take-off.

Now the Fox Moth 83 was by no means an aeroplane designed for passenger comfort. It only had enough room for two seats, a stretcher and the doctor. What’s more, it was held together with little more than wood, cloth, string and wire. So they set off at top speed, which was about 80 miles an hour, in the old money; about a four-hour trip it was.

When they arrived in Normanton they headed straight for the National Hotel, fully expecting to find this chap still laying at the bottom of the stairs. But nothing was going to get in the way of this stockman’s big occasion. This was his big night. It was his ritual and nothing was going to curtail his celebrations, not even head injuries, nor concussion, nor shoulder injuries. Nothing! Somehow he’d gained his second wind and had managed to find his way back to the bar.

Now this chap proved to be a big man of around 15 stone, if not more. Quite a ‘bush gentleman’ he was, in his own sort of way, and one who could tell cattle-camp yarns by the dozen, which he seemed more intent on doing at the time than returning to Cloncurry to get his injuries seen to. But in the end four mates got him into a truck and they drove him out to the airstrip.

But getting this chap out there was only part of the fun. Like I said, he was a solid lump of a man and it took some wangling to get him into the Fox Moth and fixed up in one of the seats in the cabin. When that was done, the doctor clambered in, followed by the clergyman who sat beside the stockman. The pilot spun the propeller, the plane sparked into action, then he jumped into the outside cockpit and they prepared for take-off.

‘Just keep an eye on the patient, Padre,’ the doctor said, and they took off, heading back to Cloncurry.

As I said, it was a good four-hour trip, longer when there’s an extra 15 stone on board. There they were, halfway to Cloncurry, and they were flying over Donor’s Hill when the big stockman made it known that he’d received the urgent call of nature. His exact words won’t be quoted. All I’ll say is that the stockman used his own particular style of vernacular to get his point across in a crystal clear manner. The rest is up to your own imagination.

Naturally, the Fox Moth 83 didn’t have the facilities to cater for such an exotic exercise. But that wasn’t going to inhibit the stockman. As enterprising as he was, he took off one of his riding boots. Out it come, and he proceeded to fill the boot. Then after the stockman had filled the boot, he stood it up on the floor next to the Padre. Now if that didn’t give our good clergyman a shock, worse was to follow. The stockman then removed the other boot, the left one it might have been, and proceeded to fill that one up as well, or nearly up.

‘Ah, there, that’s better,’ he sighed and calmly stood it up beside the other one, right next to the Padre’s seat.

So there was the Padre, watching these two boots jiggle precariously about on the floor of the vibrating aeroplane, when the voice of the pilot crackled through the speaking tube from the outside cockpit. ‘Hold on tight, fellers,’ he said, ‘we’re going to strike some rough turbulence over these Cloncurry hills.’

That really threw the Padre into panic. He took a look at the stockman. Then he took a look at the jiggling boots. Then he took a second look at the stockman. But the stockman didn’t seem too perturbed about the matter so the clergyman was forced to take things into his own hands, so to speak, and as they
flew through the turbulence over the Cloncurry hills, he steadied both boots to keep them from spilling all over the place.

They finally landed in Cloncurry where the ambulance was waiting. As soon as they came to a stop, four husky men helped lift the bulky, injured patient out of the plane and into the ambulance.

‘See you later, Padre,’ the doctor said as he jumped in the back of the ambulance, and off they dashed to the hospital, leaving the Padre behind.

So there he was, this Padre, standing out on the airstrip, wondering how he was going to get home when it suddenly dawned upon him that he was still hanging on to these two filled stockman’s boots.

He must have looked a rare sight because the pilot appeared not long after, and didn’t he have a chuckle. ‘Well,’ he laughed, ‘I’ve heard of the saying “as full as a boot” — but, Padre, I reckon you might have gone one better there!’